Note: this is a little story I wrote for class but I'm having some difficulty with this program retaining the format, indentions, alignment etc. Enjoy.
I am trying to act cool but the owner of the firm came too. It’s only been a few weeks since I started my position as Receptionist. Rachel, my boss, decided on Emeril Agassi’s new restaurant, in Orlando, for the Christmas luncheon.
“Any minute now,” she says pushing her sleek black sunglasses back over her long, dark hair.
A female hostess in a black dress shirt, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, holds the door for us.
“For what” I say.
“He’ll find something to complain about,” she says.
Eric, the paralegal, shakes his head lightly back and forth, “He’s never satisfied.”
“At least we will get a nice meal,” I say nodding appreciatively to the hostess as we enter the restaurant.
“It’d be nicer if they weren’t here,” says Tina the older, blonde secretary, “they didn’t even wait for us they just left us in the parking lot,” she points to the owner, Ted and his perverted older brother, Ron who are already seated.
We follow the hostess to our table. The ceilings are high and the windows wall to wall. The crisp air and jutting rays of sun warm and cool my face as I walk. The light dances upon the crystal wine glasses, silver utensils, and china place settings. Blonde wooden chairs draw attention to themselves contrasting the white linen table cloths. With the coarse rock walls and cool air, I feel as though I’m on a city street somewhere in ancient Israel.
As we approach Ted waits, an impatient fist pushed up under his protruding chin. The sleek wooden floors make me nervous. My red pumps are new, a Christmas present to myself. Carefully, I make my way to the table fearing a humiliating fall. A young male server wearing a white dress shirt and black tie, his rich, brown hair slicked back, holds a chair out for me.
“Thank you,” I say smoothing my black shirt dress under my bare legs as I sit.
“Would you care for a black one,” the handsome waiter inquires.
My eyes dart about searching for his meaning. He raises his shaven chin motioning to another server who is handing a black napkin to Tina. Poising myself, “yes, please.”
He leans very close placing it upon my lap. His cologne, Armani’s Acqua Di Gio, encircles me tickling my nose. I struggle hard not to close my eyes while breathing it in. Through the meal I enjoy my plate of fish, veggies. When dessert arrives, the owner is still talking; he has been talking through the entire meal. The last I can remember he had started talking about his plans to visit his parents for Christmas although I can’t remember where he said they live.
It’s time for dessert, I had ordered Crème Brûlée. The server places a triangular dish in front of me. In the center sits a half hexagon beige mound, its smooth creamy bottom contrasts against the sleek tawny top. Aside it lay a medley of berries blue, black, and rasp. I push my spoon down hard into it but it slides through with ease. My spoon clanks onto the plate underneath it. A convex bite of the ivory custard slips past my lips, with little chewing, the bite smoothes over my tongue, massaging my taste buds. I smell rich confection. The luscious caramel topping crunches softly between my teeth. I give the fruit a try. I expect the deep red raspberries, their usual matte appearance replaced by an enticing gloss, to be tart next to the richness of the Brûlée. They are not. The raspberry seeds pop between my teeth as the juice trickles into my cheeks. I ease a spoonful of blueberries into my mouth. The dark, violet berries burst as their soft innards saturate my mouth. A rich red strawberry sauce lay drizzled in a zig zag over the dish. I swipe a dollop of it on my finger and place it in the center of my tongue. The substance melts away. The tartness tingles my jaw. I take a bite containing all the elements; it is like fireworks in my mouth, an explosion of sweet pastiche.
My mind has strayed far from the conversation but I hear enough to be confused. The lawyer takes a bite of his ominous pumpkin cheesecake then with contorted face pushes it from him, “so, it’s not a big cabin but it has all that you need, a place to eat, a place to sleep. It’s tight quarters but it’s enough to keep us somewhat comfortable for a day or however long it takes us to get to Mom’s.”
What is he talking about? To my shame I ask, “are you going by boat?” A shockwave hit the table. Each employee looks up in order as if participating in a strange wave.
The lawyer, mouth gaping, scans my expression with those icy blue eyes “are you kidding?”
Am I? Would it make it better if I were?
My boss, who had just hired me vouching, “she’ll be worth every penny,” places a shaking hand aside her temple. She drops it, staring right into me with those striking black eyes, “a boat from here to Virginia?”
Humiliation assaults me pressing down hard on my chest. My stomach thrashes within me. Mashing my bottom lip I accept the consequences, “Oh, of course not.”
Older brother, Ron snickers behind a chubby hand, a faux Rolex watch holds on to his flabby wrist for dear life, “wow, Rachel you know how to pick ‘em.”
Bumping a reassuring knee into mine Eric says, “Guys, you’ll have to excuse her she’s like a screensaver.” The attention shifts to him. I tighten as embarrassment licks my earlobes and heat strikes my cheeks. “Yeah well, if you tell a boring story she tunes out and goes into screensaver mode, looks like her dessert was more interesting than your lengthy train story.”
I join Rachel and Tina in nervous laughter. Ted shifts in his seat resting his glaring eyes upon Eric. Eric sets his jaw returning the evil gawk with a wry smile. The bovine brother is finally silent. It is apparent that Eric will pay for this later.
I learn two very important lessons, we here at the Dunn Law Firm take care of each other and my nickname will forever be, Screensaver
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Coqui
Coqui
It’s been five years since I visited last. That’s because my husband left and I thought it would be weird. A few months ago, at the request of his grandmother, my ex-husband asked that I accompany him to her home in Puerto Rico and here I am. I drop my suitcase on the floor. My room is still the same; it used to be our room. In front of me I see it; I had forgotten it was there, a large picture of us at our wedding. Clasping my hands over my face, I weep. The door hinges squeak, and behind me, someone lingers.
Fragile arms wrap around me and, in Spanish, an old woman whispers, “don’t cry.” Kissing my shoulder, because that’s all she can reach, she says “I love you, precious one.” This old woman, my ex-husband’s grandmother, still pleads for my happiness as she always has. Tear drops from her chin fall onto my arm.
At the airport, it had been a tearful reunion. She stood with open arms. Her left arm shook under the weight of her cane.
“Mama”, her name fell from my lips. I squeezed her gently.
She let out a tiny sob, my hair swayed under the force of her breath, her voice cracked, “You are home.”
“I missed you,” although I said it in English, somehow she understood.
We walked arm in arm as my ex-husband trailed behind listening to his mother, Letty, jabber on, of course, she had come too. She arrived a week before us so that she wouldn’t miss the visit.
My ex-mother-in-law grabbed Mama’s arm, “don’t worry Sherry, I got her.” My name is not Sherry, it never has been. How hard is it to say Cherish?
I clung to Mama, “I’ve got her.” There was a slight decline at the curb.
“Oh, be more careful here,” Letty tightened her grip.
“We’re fine.”
Mama chuckled and in broken English repeated, “we fine,” she slapped her knee and grabbed my hand. She is always proud of herself for any English she can muster.
My ex said, “Mom, why don’t you help me with the bags.”
She huffed and picked up a bag while still holding on to Mama. Her efforts had almost pulled us over.
Now, here she comes again.
“Ah, there you are,” her pudgy arms pull us in for a strange embrace. Her hot breath is on my ear. I quickly wipe away the pool of tears under my chin.
“Why are you,” her voice catches. She never misses an opportunity to cry. “I love you, you are still my daughter,” she lies.
I draw a quick breath and part my lips to speak.
Dishonest tears stream down her ample pink cheeks, “I wish you hadn’t gotten divorced from my son,” her neck is bare where she used to wear the locket I gave her. I clutch at my stomach and straighten my shoulders.
Dropping her arms, Mama’s voice is sharp, “Letty, come.” Another dramatic sob and she’s out the door. Mama shakes her head then blows me a kiss and closes the door. I am alone again.
Later that night, I am okay for the moment.
Mama is making coffee, “Quieres café?” Of course I want her coffee, there is nothing like it in the world.
“Si, gracias,” she sets a cup down for me and watches as I enjoy the first sip. My eyes close as the warm liquid slides over my tongue, “gracias, Mama.” It is quiet. She sets another steamy cup on the placemat opposite me. Kissing me on the forehead she disappears into the hallway. Soon after my ex-husband emerges from the hall and takes the vacant seat. In this small kitchen, we are in close proximity.
“Like your coffee?”
My head bobs, “yeah it’s always good.”
The tiny vein aside his nose pulsates. Oh God, what now?
“This is hard for you.”
I shift my weight, another sip.
“I’m sorry. I regret what I’ve done; it’s never what I wanted for us.”
My eyes and nose begin to tingle. The coqui, a native frog to the island, chirp outside.
“I just want to make sure you are okay and I told my mom to leave you alone this weekend.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
He scratches his side, his nervous tick, “Talk to me.”
His eyes are still beautiful. I gently place the cup down but support it with both hands, “I feel so…”
“Hey, look at this,” his mother’s shrill voice tears through the moment like a knife, aborting our tiny conversation. Rage dances beneath my skin.
She continues, “Baby, this was the outfit you wore when you were first born.”
Putting a hand in the air, “Mom, we were…”
She hugs him, “You are still my little baby. And look at the little booties that went with it, how precious they are.”
I stand and push the chair in.
“Cherish,” is all he gets out before she begins again.
I take my coffee outside; my ex-husband follows me with his eyes but remains with his mother as she prattles on. On the balcony, the night air is cool, the coffee warms my stomach, and the coqui keep me company. Only three more days.
It’s been five years since I visited last. That’s because my husband left and I thought it would be weird. A few months ago, at the request of his grandmother, my ex-husband asked that I accompany him to her home in Puerto Rico and here I am. I drop my suitcase on the floor. My room is still the same; it used to be our room. In front of me I see it; I had forgotten it was there, a large picture of us at our wedding. Clasping my hands over my face, I weep. The door hinges squeak, and behind me, someone lingers.
Fragile arms wrap around me and, in Spanish, an old woman whispers, “don’t cry.” Kissing my shoulder, because that’s all she can reach, she says “I love you, precious one.” This old woman, my ex-husband’s grandmother, still pleads for my happiness as she always has. Tear drops from her chin fall onto my arm.
At the airport, it had been a tearful reunion. She stood with open arms. Her left arm shook under the weight of her cane.
“Mama”, her name fell from my lips. I squeezed her gently.
She let out a tiny sob, my hair swayed under the force of her breath, her voice cracked, “You are home.”
“I missed you,” although I said it in English, somehow she understood.
We walked arm in arm as my ex-husband trailed behind listening to his mother, Letty, jabber on, of course, she had come too. She arrived a week before us so that she wouldn’t miss the visit.
My ex-mother-in-law grabbed Mama’s arm, “don’t worry Sherry, I got her.” My name is not Sherry, it never has been. How hard is it to say Cherish?
I clung to Mama, “I’ve got her.” There was a slight decline at the curb.
“Oh, be more careful here,” Letty tightened her grip.
“We’re fine.”
Mama chuckled and in broken English repeated, “we fine,” she slapped her knee and grabbed my hand. She is always proud of herself for any English she can muster.
My ex said, “Mom, why don’t you help me with the bags.”
She huffed and picked up a bag while still holding on to Mama. Her efforts had almost pulled us over.
Now, here she comes again.
“Ah, there you are,” her pudgy arms pull us in for a strange embrace. Her hot breath is on my ear. I quickly wipe away the pool of tears under my chin.
“Why are you,” her voice catches. She never misses an opportunity to cry. “I love you, you are still my daughter,” she lies.
I draw a quick breath and part my lips to speak.
Dishonest tears stream down her ample pink cheeks, “I wish you hadn’t gotten divorced from my son,” her neck is bare where she used to wear the locket I gave her. I clutch at my stomach and straighten my shoulders.
Dropping her arms, Mama’s voice is sharp, “Letty, come.” Another dramatic sob and she’s out the door. Mama shakes her head then blows me a kiss and closes the door. I am alone again.
Later that night, I am okay for the moment.
Mama is making coffee, “Quieres café?” Of course I want her coffee, there is nothing like it in the world.
“Si, gracias,” she sets a cup down for me and watches as I enjoy the first sip. My eyes close as the warm liquid slides over my tongue, “gracias, Mama.” It is quiet. She sets another steamy cup on the placemat opposite me. Kissing me on the forehead she disappears into the hallway. Soon after my ex-husband emerges from the hall and takes the vacant seat. In this small kitchen, we are in close proximity.
“Like your coffee?”
My head bobs, “yeah it’s always good.”
The tiny vein aside his nose pulsates. Oh God, what now?
“This is hard for you.”
I shift my weight, another sip.
“I’m sorry. I regret what I’ve done; it’s never what I wanted for us.”
My eyes and nose begin to tingle. The coqui, a native frog to the island, chirp outside.
“I just want to make sure you are okay and I told my mom to leave you alone this weekend.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
He scratches his side, his nervous tick, “Talk to me.”
His eyes are still beautiful. I gently place the cup down but support it with both hands, “I feel so…”
“Hey, look at this,” his mother’s shrill voice tears through the moment like a knife, aborting our tiny conversation. Rage dances beneath my skin.
She continues, “Baby, this was the outfit you wore when you were first born.”
Putting a hand in the air, “Mom, we were…”
She hugs him, “You are still my little baby. And look at the little booties that went with it, how precious they are.”
I stand and push the chair in.
“Cherish,” is all he gets out before she begins again.
I take my coffee outside; my ex-husband follows me with his eyes but remains with his mother as she prattles on. On the balcony, the night air is cool, the coffee warms my stomach, and the coqui keep me company. Only three more days.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Crash
Last night I was on my way to meet some friends. Traffic on the ever frustrating I-4 was bad but not too bad. I looked down for a moment, can't remember why, and when I returned my attention to the road ahead of me there was no longer a road but the butt end of a Toyota Camry. It was way to close and despite all my quick thinking and rapid response, I slammed into the back of them so hard that my airbags deployed. This was very scary. I didn't even know what happened. Smoke filled the car and I thought I was on fire. I got out to see if the people in the other car were okay. They were but refused to respond to me. The shock of it caused my stomach to turn into knots and I felt like...uh...there is no nice word for it so I'll just plainly say, I felt like vomitting, hurling, ralphing, spewing chunks, etc. Thankfully, I did not. I was dazed. A handsome business man pulled up behind to see if he could help. He could not, so he moved on.
We tried to pull over, the other car and I, but traffic was really bad. Because most people are in their own world and concerned about their own selfish concerns, nobody would let us over. Pulling onto the side of the road was almost as scary as the crash. The first responder on the scene was the fire department. Now, you have to understand that I was already feeling like an idiot. I was shocked at how shook up I was over something so common and felt really dumb for rear-ending somebody. But to make matters worse, out of the fire truck come 3 of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. I thought, Oh great! They were tall, dark, and mostly handsome. One of the trio of 6'4" men asked me for my name. He wrote it down and then with a wink and a smile asked how I'd gotten such a beautiful name. I was thinking, are you flirting with me? Seriously? But in truth, I was also flattered. I had not the will or desire to return his kindness and let out a weak smile. They quickly left and I was alone with the snippy officer and the mute driver of the car I hit. I call him mute because he refused to speak. Much later, he approached and said that the damage didn't look too bad.
I called the insurance company and they said they were sending the tow truck to get me. I spent the rest of the night being harrassed by the officer who couldn't, "stay here all night". And was informed that I, "have to get this car out of here". I was thinking, what do you want me to do? Heft it with my brute strength? Then a smaller voice said to respect the authority set over me and I sucked it up and dealt kindly with the police man. I'm sure he is embittered, not with me, but with the nature of his job in general.
Anyway, I got home many hours later, after my poor car had been towed away. I assessed that I would have to pay $164.00 ticket, $500.00 deductible, rent a car, and possibly have my insurance go up. This left me so upset that I wasn't sure what to do. So I bought a black and white cookie. It did not help. I was trying to lighten the mood for my mother who was concerned so, I joked around about the trio of hot firemen. Then she asked where the accident happened. After a phone call to my Aunt Debbie, who is a fire dispatcher, she says, "Oh those were Debbie's guys. Tomorrow, she's going to see who it was that was dispatched and see if there is anybody we need to introduce you to." So amusing. Wouldn't that be hilarious if I actually got a date out of this?
What I find to be good about this situation was, the first thing I did was pray. I said, "God, help me". Then, at some point, I told God that I trusted him to make something good out of these lemons. This morning I saw that my tax return money was sitting in the bank, ready for me to pay all the costs that I incurred. Isn't that amazing?
We tried to pull over, the other car and I, but traffic was really bad. Because most people are in their own world and concerned about their own selfish concerns, nobody would let us over. Pulling onto the side of the road was almost as scary as the crash. The first responder on the scene was the fire department. Now, you have to understand that I was already feeling like an idiot. I was shocked at how shook up I was over something so common and felt really dumb for rear-ending somebody. But to make matters worse, out of the fire truck come 3 of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. I thought, Oh great! They were tall, dark, and mostly handsome. One of the trio of 6'4" men asked me for my name. He wrote it down and then with a wink and a smile asked how I'd gotten such a beautiful name. I was thinking, are you flirting with me? Seriously? But in truth, I was also flattered. I had not the will or desire to return his kindness and let out a weak smile. They quickly left and I was alone with the snippy officer and the mute driver of the car I hit. I call him mute because he refused to speak. Much later, he approached and said that the damage didn't look too bad.
I called the insurance company and they said they were sending the tow truck to get me. I spent the rest of the night being harrassed by the officer who couldn't, "stay here all night". And was informed that I, "have to get this car out of here". I was thinking, what do you want me to do? Heft it with my brute strength? Then a smaller voice said to respect the authority set over me and I sucked it up and dealt kindly with the police man. I'm sure he is embittered, not with me, but with the nature of his job in general.
Anyway, I got home many hours later, after my poor car had been towed away. I assessed that I would have to pay $164.00 ticket, $500.00 deductible, rent a car, and possibly have my insurance go up. This left me so upset that I wasn't sure what to do. So I bought a black and white cookie. It did not help. I was trying to lighten the mood for my mother who was concerned so, I joked around about the trio of hot firemen. Then she asked where the accident happened. After a phone call to my Aunt Debbie, who is a fire dispatcher, she says, "Oh those were Debbie's guys. Tomorrow, she's going to see who it was that was dispatched and see if there is anybody we need to introduce you to." So amusing. Wouldn't that be hilarious if I actually got a date out of this?
What I find to be good about this situation was, the first thing I did was pray. I said, "God, help me". Then, at some point, I told God that I trusted him to make something good out of these lemons. This morning I saw that my tax return money was sitting in the bank, ready for me to pay all the costs that I incurred. Isn't that amazing?
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Poem of the Month "Jabberwocky"
JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought --So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
My opinion:
I love this poem. To me, it is complete fantasy. The description creates, in my mind, a Burtonesque landscape. I imagine a dark, overgrown, woody forest without much foliage. The sky is overcast. Cold drops of melted ice drip from the branches. The young man has tried to capture this beast again and again. He has it down to a science now. He knows that pursuing the Jabberwock is futile. For, as soon as the Jubjub bird sees him, he will alert the Jabberwock and the the surprise attack will fail yet again. So he changes his strategy and waits beneath the Tumtum tree. The Jabberwock comes trampling through the woods, "whiffling" as he goes. It is a battle cry, meant to intimidate his prey. Instead, it works against the Jabberwock, and prepares the young man for the beast's attack. He is able to surprise the Jabberwock and slay him with ease. The young man honored his father by heeding his warnings; it saved his life. Such an intriguing piece.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
"The Shack" by WM. Paul Young
This book was a strange journey. I am not sure how I feel, as a whole, about it so I will just report my observations and conflicting emotions. I initially hated the book, then found it intriguing. Some parts seemed comforting while others were disturbing. At times, the dialogue is juvenile. In real life, I've never heard one grown man use words like, "silly" or "pea brained" when speaking to another grown man. Also, the author tried too hard to make the trinity appear relatable to humans; it sounded insincere. The conversations again and again ended up in laughter but nothing was funny. It did, however, create some beautiful images, in my mind, of life. It likens our lives to a colorful garden that has yet to be finished. The garden is in chaos but is beautiful still. I love that. It also spurs one on to forgiveness; that is what spoke to me the most. I think it sounds confusing and false because it attempts to explain or depict things that are inexplicable. It goes into much conversation and detail about the trinity, God's love, and the code by which He lives. Any explanation of these things cannot fit into our minds. It is something that God must reveal to us in pieces, and even then it is hard to understand. There has been controversy about this book. Some have suggested that it is spiritually misleading. I was warned not to read it because it "sent one woman to an insane asylum." While I don't presume to know the details of this woman's life, I find a suggestion like this, in and of itself, insane. Overall, it was one man's incredible journey, and like every work of fiction, has its strengths and weaknesses. The things you take away are priceless. They are almost worth the strange journey to obtain them.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Books I've Read, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" by Robert Louis Stevenson
I see why this story, written by Robert Louis Stevenson, is a classic. Yes, it is creepy but not too creepy. It is an amazing story, weaved in such a way that leaves you hanging on to every word. Many people know this story, or watered down derivatives of it, but many have never actually read it. I recommend it. Every day there is a war inside each of us. Do I simply deal with the woman, on the phone, who almost hit me or scream some obscenities? Do I help that person who looks in need or continue on my busy way? Do I lie or tell the truth that might get me into trouble? This story simply puts those two sides of every person into actual characters that answer to the names, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It is worth the few hours it'll take to read.
Books I've Read, "For One More Day" by Mitch Albom
This book, what can I say, it...left in me a deep desire to raise my kid; to really raise him. This book is about a middle-aged man who tries to committ suicide but in so doing receives a gift, one more day with his late mother. It is a story that makes you wish you were back in your parent's kitchen, after a long day of playing in the snow, eating a grilled cheese sandwhich repetitively dipped in tomatoe soup. It charges me to make my son's memories of life valuable. I am a single mother as one of the main characters, Posie Bennetto, finds herself to be. Much like me, she never intended to raise her kids alone but alone she is. She loves her kids. It spurs me on to simply, make memories.
Books I've Read, "Even Now" by Karen Kingsbury
This story is gripping. It is about lost love, mistakes, peace, and true forgiveness. Karen takes you on a trip; a difficult trip. As I read it at work, my eyes brimmed with tears. I choked them back to answer the phone (I am a receptionist whose boss doesn't mind me reading), then quickly returned to the story that made my heart ache. I recommend it to those who feel strained in their own family relationships. It deals with deep hurt and injustice. I loved it. It left me emotionally spent but also refreshed. I can't say that about many books. Below is a link to a full description of it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Old Couple
When Alex and I were engaged the first thing we had to do was get a marriage license. We were so hopelessly in love and were excited about the task. With stars in our eyes, we headed down to the courthouse. To get to the right place, we had to walk down a very constricting hallway. The paint was drab, the tile devoid of color and the employees were just the same. There was a mix of smells. I remember stale cigarette smoke, harsh cleaning products, and cynicism, lots of cynicism; the place was rank with it. But no matter how depressing the place was, I and my husband-to-be were not phased by it. We were resolute in our decision to marry and with giddy smiles announced, "We would like to get a marriage license". The less than friendly government worker behind the counter handed us the necessary paperwork and directed us to a waiting area which was nothing more than a few broken chairs seemingly from the 1960's. Without hesitation, we filled out the paperwork and handed it back to this henchman of the state. She glared at us as our cloud of romance encircled her, I believe she choked on it, then stamped out papers and sent them to be processed.
Today Alex and I, now husband and wife of 8 years, walked down a very similar hallway. It had the same drab paint, the same colorless tile, and of course the same cynical smell. The reason for our visit had changed a bit though, we carried with us our signed divorce papers. This time the minion behind the desk was almost intolerable. She was an old woman, poorly dressed and missing a tooth in the front. She was tired of her job and I was tired for her. On this visit there was no more romance encircling us, just disappointment. We were no longer hopeless romantics we were just hopeless. We had come to the end. The woman sat there almost chiding us for having been so foolish to believe our marriage would last or at least that's how it seemed. After forking over the necessary dough, we were told to sit down and wait for our case number.
As we waited I looked down the hall at the pews resting along the wall in front of the courtrooms. There was couple after couple sitting together. Some of them were obviously there for the same reason we were; their body language conveyed that without question. But i saw one couple that I remember and will probably always remember. A very young couple; they both looked to be about 18. They were dressed in their Sunday best and by the looks of it, didn't have much money. They were there to be married. She had her arm tucked under his kind of like in the old days when a gentleman would offer his arm to a woman and she would gracefully accept. That's how she was holding onto him. Her head was rested on his shoulder and her other arm held tight to him as well. He leaned into her and rested his head atop hers. They were so happy. I saw it; the same romantic cloud, the same hopeless love, the same resolve. I wanted to warn them. I wanted to tell them that it's not all it's cracked up to be, to think it through, to turn and run for the hills. But then I was reminded of another couple very much like this one but without all the gooey love stuff.
The couple I am remembering were scheduled to be married on a Wednesday afternoon around 1 p.m. It was a very informal wedding. Heck, the groom had to convince his boss to let him off work early so he could attend! On the way to the wedding both the bride and groom admitted they weren't even sure that what they were doing was right. There were no clouds of romance, no lavish decorations, or long ceremonies. They were asked only one question, "Do you?". But they had a secret. They had what a lot of people don't have these days, commitment. After each answered the question with a, "yes", the couple started a life together that would last for 63 years. They went on to have three beautiful children, who grew up to give them 5 beautiful grand kids, and even one great grandchild. They built a life together that lasted until June 11, 2002 when the man died, his wife by his side holding his hand. She was always by his side, supporting and loving him, as she had learned to do over the years. Five years before his death, the man declared to his wife, "Mommy" (that's what he called her) "I never told you that I love you, well I do". And every day after that until he died at the age of 100, he kissed his wife and told her, "I love you."
With that in mind I kept my cynicism to myself and smiled at the sweet couple. Whispering a prayer of hope for them, I returned to my seat beside my soon to be ex-husband and began to think of the old couple who had lasted for so long, the couple with the 3 kids and the 5 grand kids of which I am one. That couple was Doc and Clara Bailey, my grandparents. They left a good legacy for me. An example of real love, the kind that lasts forever...and with it they also left me a little hope. (below: my grandparents on their wedding day. Pic 2 My grandparents on my wedding day 63 years later)
Today Alex and I, now husband and wife of 8 years, walked down a very similar hallway. It had the same drab paint, the same colorless tile, and of course the same cynical smell. The reason for our visit had changed a bit though, we carried with us our signed divorce papers. This time the minion behind the desk was almost intolerable. She was an old woman, poorly dressed and missing a tooth in the front. She was tired of her job and I was tired for her. On this visit there was no more romance encircling us, just disappointment. We were no longer hopeless romantics we were just hopeless. We had come to the end. The woman sat there almost chiding us for having been so foolish to believe our marriage would last or at least that's how it seemed. After forking over the necessary dough, we were told to sit down and wait for our case number.
As we waited I looked down the hall at the pews resting along the wall in front of the courtrooms. There was couple after couple sitting together. Some of them were obviously there for the same reason we were; their body language conveyed that without question. But i saw one couple that I remember and will probably always remember. A very young couple; they both looked to be about 18. They were dressed in their Sunday best and by the looks of it, didn't have much money. They were there to be married. She had her arm tucked under his kind of like in the old days when a gentleman would offer his arm to a woman and she would gracefully accept. That's how she was holding onto him. Her head was rested on his shoulder and her other arm held tight to him as well. He leaned into her and rested his head atop hers. They were so happy. I saw it; the same romantic cloud, the same hopeless love, the same resolve. I wanted to warn them. I wanted to tell them that it's not all it's cracked up to be, to think it through, to turn and run for the hills. But then I was reminded of another couple very much like this one but without all the gooey love stuff.
The couple I am remembering were scheduled to be married on a Wednesday afternoon around 1 p.m. It was a very informal wedding. Heck, the groom had to convince his boss to let him off work early so he could attend! On the way to the wedding both the bride and groom admitted they weren't even sure that what they were doing was right. There were no clouds of romance, no lavish decorations, or long ceremonies. They were asked only one question, "Do you?". But they had a secret. They had what a lot of people don't have these days, commitment. After each answered the question with a, "yes", the couple started a life together that would last for 63 years. They went on to have three beautiful children, who grew up to give them 5 beautiful grand kids, and even one great grandchild. They built a life together that lasted until June 11, 2002 when the man died, his wife by his side holding his hand. She was always by his side, supporting and loving him, as she had learned to do over the years. Five years before his death, the man declared to his wife, "Mommy" (that's what he called her) "I never told you that I love you, well I do". And every day after that until he died at the age of 100, he kissed his wife and told her, "I love you."
With that in mind I kept my cynicism to myself and smiled at the sweet couple. Whispering a prayer of hope for them, I returned to my seat beside my soon to be ex-husband and began to think of the old couple who had lasted for so long, the couple with the 3 kids and the 5 grand kids of which I am one. That couple was Doc and Clara Bailey, my grandparents. They left a good legacy for me. An example of real love, the kind that lasts forever...and with it they also left me a little hope. (below: my grandparents on their wedding day. Pic 2 My grandparents on my wedding day 63 years later)
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The Aching
It's funny... the things you learn from pain. Everybody has pain. Whether it be great or small we all experience pain. And even though we try to comfort ourselves by appreciating the fact that so many others have it worse than we do...it still doesn't lessen the pain...not even a little bit. Why is that? I think pain was designed to make you aware of danger. Meaning if you couldn't feel pain you might not realized that you just leaned against the burner and are about to loose your hand. Follow me? So I think it was intended to alert you to something that would hurt you so that you can stop it. But what about the kind of pain that we can't escape? What about emotional things...the loss of loved ones...the loss of a career...the loss of a dream....the loss of a friend...the loss of a lover? What do you do with that pain? I mean if you're leaning against a burner you quickly stop before there is any damage. But with matters of the heart...pain doesn't come until you're already too deep into it to protect yourself. Hmph.
Let me first say that I have, by no means, cornered the market on pain but over the last few years I have discovered what it's like to feel loss...in more ways than one. I have lost so much and continue to loose. I know what it feels like to ache in the most hidden places of your soul. To ache so hard that your body responds the only way it knows how...to curl up into a fetal position, the very basic of comforts, and scream and wail until there is not a tear left inside. It's funny how, even as an adult your childlike instincts can be very strong. David understood that pain. You know, David from the Bible, in Psalms?
So much has transpired in my life. As the aching in my heart got too great to bear I turned to old faithful...the Bible. l flipped open the Bible and arbitrarily landed on one verse. The page was full of words but my eyes saw only 4 of them. "He restores my soul...." (Psalms 23:3) The tears poured down my face. "He restores my soul..." There has been so much going on in my heart and my mind, it's amazing that somebody would WANT to be invited into the madness of my soul with only one purpose...to restore it.
Let me first say that I have, by no means, cornered the market on pain but over the last few years I have discovered what it's like to feel loss...in more ways than one. I have lost so much and continue to loose. I know what it feels like to ache in the most hidden places of your soul. To ache so hard that your body responds the only way it knows how...to curl up into a fetal position, the very basic of comforts, and scream and wail until there is not a tear left inside. It's funny how, even as an adult your childlike instincts can be very strong. David understood that pain. You know, David from the Bible, in Psalms?
So much has transpired in my life. As the aching in my heart got too great to bear I turned to old faithful...the Bible. l flipped open the Bible and arbitrarily landed on one verse. The page was full of words but my eyes saw only 4 of them. "He restores my soul...." (Psalms 23:3) The tears poured down my face. "He restores my soul..." There has been so much going on in my heart and my mind, it's amazing that somebody would WANT to be invited into the madness of my soul with only one purpose...to restore it.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
They're Back
Okay to tell you this mini story I must tell you something rather embarrassing about myself. I have this annoying little quark, where whenever I laugh unexpectedly or for a long time, I get hiccups. You know...the really hard kind that make your chest hurt.
Alex (my soon to be ex-husband) and I used to laugh together a lot. Usually because we were sharing our events of the day or our observations of others. I have a way of weaving a comical scenario and so does he, so we commonly laughed together. Every once in a while (more often than I'd like) I would laugh so hard that I would get hiccups, which would send Alex into an unsympathetic wave of laughter. Who could blame him for his jeering? I thought it was entertainment worthy myself.
Anyways, today my son was saying a simple phrase but he was testing out a new character voice while doing so. He was saying something about "the empire is at hand". It made me laugh so hard I began to hiccup. It was then that I realized I hadn't had the laughing hiccups in over a year. For whatever reason they had disappeared but now...for whatever reason they're back.
I'll take that as a good thing.
Cherish
Alex (my soon to be ex-husband) and I used to laugh together a lot. Usually because we were sharing our events of the day or our observations of others. I have a way of weaving a comical scenario and so does he, so we commonly laughed together. Every once in a while (more often than I'd like) I would laugh so hard that I would get hiccups, which would send Alex into an unsympathetic wave of laughter. Who could blame him for his jeering? I thought it was entertainment worthy myself.
Anyways, today my son was saying a simple phrase but he was testing out a new character voice while doing so. He was saying something about "the empire is at hand". It made me laugh so hard I began to hiccup. It was then that I realized I hadn't had the laughing hiccups in over a year. For whatever reason they had disappeared but now...for whatever reason they're back.
I'll take that as a good thing.
Cherish
A Sweet Moment
I had one of those "write about it" moments. You know, the kind of moment that you...uh write about? Here goes.
On Thanksgiving of 2007 my son and I were in Colorado Springs visiting my sister and her best friend, Chris. It was bedtime and I was desperately trying to get my son to get comfortable in a different bed, in a different house, in a different state where almost everybody he loved was awake and having fun in the other room. No dice. He cried and cried. I was about to cry myself because, at the time, things in my life were so overwhelmingly sad and my heart was broken. I prayed for wisdom and strength not to loose my temper or not to join him in his wailing. What came to mind was the song, "Baby of Mine" from the movie Dumbo. It was one of my favorite songs as a kid and my son had recently seen the movie.
I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the words but I hummed the tune anyway. In short order, he became silent. With the added soothing technique of stroking his hair he was calm, quiet, and sleeping in no time. Over the last year and a half the comfort of that song has meant a lot to the both of us. When I tired of singing the song, I tried to sing other things but my son would having nothing to do with those other songs. Instead, he insisted on "Baby of Mine".
We popped in a movie the other day which started with the music video of "Baby of Mine". He looked at me with glee on his face and said, "Mommy, that's the song you sing to me". Then he excitedly climbed up in my lap and rested his head on my shoulder while I stroked his hair and sang along. It was such a sweet moment. The look on his face was priceless. He didn't say it like this but what he meant was, "that is OUR song". And he just really wanted to be in my lap while it played. We played it over and over again. He rested in my lap until we were done. A simple melody brought us such a sweet moment.
On Thanksgiving of 2007 my son and I were in Colorado Springs visiting my sister and her best friend, Chris. It was bedtime and I was desperately trying to get my son to get comfortable in a different bed, in a different house, in a different state where almost everybody he loved was awake and having fun in the other room. No dice. He cried and cried. I was about to cry myself because, at the time, things in my life were so overwhelmingly sad and my heart was broken. I prayed for wisdom and strength not to loose my temper or not to join him in his wailing. What came to mind was the song, "Baby of Mine" from the movie Dumbo. It was one of my favorite songs as a kid and my son had recently seen the movie.
I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the words but I hummed the tune anyway. In short order, he became silent. With the added soothing technique of stroking his hair he was calm, quiet, and sleeping in no time. Over the last year and a half the comfort of that song has meant a lot to the both of us. When I tired of singing the song, I tried to sing other things but my son would having nothing to do with those other songs. Instead, he insisted on "Baby of Mine".
We popped in a movie the other day which started with the music video of "Baby of Mine". He looked at me with glee on his face and said, "Mommy, that's the song you sing to me". Then he excitedly climbed up in my lap and rested his head on my shoulder while I stroked his hair and sang along. It was such a sweet moment. The look on his face was priceless. He didn't say it like this but what he meant was, "that is OUR song". And he just really wanted to be in my lap while it played. We played it over and over again. He rested in my lap until we were done. A simple melody brought us such a sweet moment.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Welcome
Welcome to my blog. I have been blogging via MySpace and Facebook for quite some time but have just begun this site devoted to the art of blog. I am anxious to hear how it works for you. Please feel free to comment on the functionality of the site. Does it work for you? How does the layout look? Are my blogs somewhat interesting? And also leave ANY comments you may have about how I may better improve the site, as it is a work in progress.
My blogs are usually anecdotes about my day, or my life. Sometimes it's just something sweet my son did or a short note about a quirky professor. Some might be a little dark as I've experienced some difficulty in my personal life, but I guarantee that even the dark ones will be worth the time you take to read them.
Enjoy,
Cherish Shalom
My blogs are usually anecdotes about my day, or my life. Sometimes it's just something sweet my son did or a short note about a quirky professor. Some might be a little dark as I've experienced some difficulty in my personal life, but I guarantee that even the dark ones will be worth the time you take to read them.
Enjoy,
Cherish Shalom
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Rock Whacha Got!
The doctor told me yesterday that I should have my tonsils out. He began to describe some unlikely but possible side effects. The first thing he said was there might be uncontrollable bleeding that would lead to hospitalization. The next thing he mentioned was that it might change my voice to a higher pitched or squeaky voice. The third thing I totally forgot because as soon as I heard that my voice might change I shut down. I've never really liked my voice. When I hear it on a recording or over video I've always shuttered and secretly chastised myself for not having a more "lady like" voice. But the thought of my voice changing, in any way, left me feeling totally different. I was feeling protective of my voice. Because after all it is MINE and I want to keep it the way it is!
I've always hated the way my arms look. I've also had people make fun of my feet (big for a girl) and I have hated a lot of things about myself for a long time. Then I thought, "wait, why do I hate my arms? They work. At least I HAVE arms, at least I HAVE feet". There are some people that have neither yet they live a happy life. During my marriage I watched the man I loved drool over women that had completely different body types then mine. That destroyed me because I couldn't be what he wanted. Since then I have desired to be lighter up top, darker skinned, and overall much more slender (with smaller calves I got these dang soccer calves). But I got to thinkin'...why would I want that? My body gets me to work, to school, and home again. My body also gave me my son. Heck, I'm even able to run 3 or 4 times a week. I clean up nice so who cares if I have a tan or look good in apple bottom jeans and don't even get me started on those stupid boots with the fur. I HATE that trend. I like being me. So what if I'm pasty? I glow in the dark, it's true but should I feel bad about that?
Here's a little inspiration to all you who want to loose weight. Every time you feel too tired to go walking or running, just think at least you CAN walk. What if you were laid up in bed for 5 months and couldn't do a thing? I'm pretty sure that once you got your walkin' papers you'd be gone with the wind. So when you feel too tired to exercise, just remember this blog and GO DO IT! If you hate the way your butt looks in those jeans, be thankful that you HAVE a butt to put in those jeans (however tiny it may be :o) And if you got TOO much boot (by your own standards), just rock whacha got as ONLY YOU CAN!
Love ya,
Cherish Shalom
P.S. In the pic above I felt so pasty and fat after seeing this picture...women, we are too concerned about our looks!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Currently Jaded
As many know I am going through a divorce. The people around me have been so supportive. Some have remained neutral while others have taken sides but both have loved me through this whole thing. I am thankful for those who are by my side and hope someday I could be by theirs.
I once told somebody that I wouldn't make the same mistakes with another man. But then I got to thinking. What mistakes did I make? I walked away from God for a short while amongst other things and for these things I have felt remourse. Yes I made mistakes but loving him...was never a mistake. Giving my whole heart was never a mistake. Supporting him even when he did things that were hurtful towards me was not a mistake and it was not weakness as some have tried to convince me. It was love.
I was told once that love is blind. Well I don't think that is true. I think your heart is blind. I think your heart accepts people for who they are and loves them anyway. But that is why we have a mind, to counter act the heart that is so forgiving and stubbornly hopeful. Our spirit is also with us to receive it's own counsel from the mouth of God. God talks about love...what it is, how it acts, what it can become. God describes it this way...let me just cut and paste this:
4 Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud 5 or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. 6 It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. 7 Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance. I Cor. 13:4-7
Right now I can't imagine how I'd ever trust another man as I am currently jaded. I wonder if another man would live and die for me one day and cast me aside the next. I wonder if another man would have issues too great for me to bear. I once said that I would never love like I have loved my husband. I know that now to be false because even though I am jaded; I won't always be. Love is in fact a choice. You choose to love somebody. Infatuation comes and goes but loving somebody is a process. So having said all that, there will be a time when I choose to love another. It may be sooner, it may be later, it may be never but I know that I still have that choice and when I do it will be whole hearted, without regard to the pain I feel now whilst cherishing the lessons I've learned. What a good day that will be. But until that day
I remain,
Currently Jaded.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Cloak
Below is the first blog I wrote after my husband asked for a divorce.
The Cloak
By Cherish Rosales
I love the picture above. The woman in it looks…familiar. She appears to be in deep pain but not anger, in mourning but not fear. She is powerful not pitiful, while still in much pain. I can't see her eyes but I imagine they are beautiful yet heavy and brimmed with tears that dare not fall. Her lips don't quiver, neither her chin; they are strong. Or maybe the pain is too great and the burden too heavy leaving no strength to cry. Yes,yes that's it. She is deeply sorrowful and her heart aches; yea it is broken. Yet her head does not hang down. She covers her eyes for a moment to hide the tears but only for a moment. She is still there, still here. Still able to go on and almost excited about it. This present time shall be over and the new will be in her grasp. She will then remove her covering but for now, for now the cloak remains.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Huey, Duey, Kissy, and Mo
Huey Duey Kissy and Mo
a fish tale by Cherish Shalom
This is a recording of ordinary events happening to obscure fish in a small tank in nobody's house that you know. Okay for real though, this is a story about how I suck at keeping fish alive. For Joel's third birthday he received a Walmart gift card from the Sotolongo family, with which we purchased our first group of fish. Let's see there were the three big silver fish named Larry, Curly and Mo. There was the tiny goldfish, Peewee, two black and orange fish which were two small to name. Sotolongo the Elusive Sucker Fish as he's come to be known because he has a severe social disorder. Any time he sees anybody or anything move he haul's but behind the filter where he remains about 99% of the time. Then finally there was my favorite the small boggly-eyed, beautiful tailed, black fish accurately named Moreno.
Unfortunately following the plot of every thriller in the theatres today the black fish was the first to die. I did all I could. I put him in his own bowl, with his own food and even pumped oxygen into the bowl. I did everything except yell "clear" and give him a little charge of electricity which… lets face it wouldn't have worked out so well for either of us. I mean come on this isn't a horror story, my name ain't Stephen King. Despite my efforts he took the porcelain express to better lands. Soon after, followed Larry, Curly, PeeWee and the two noname fish. We were left with Mo (the little silver fish) and of course Sotolongo the Elusive Sucker Fish who we are amazed is still alive.
The tank was boring. So Papi brought home three Goldfish which I promptly named the only other trio I know of which is Huey, Duey, and Louey. They brightened up the tank with their bright orange color. Soon I realized that the silver fish was changing colors. It was amazing but he actually changed himself to a light color of orange. I was like, "This is either really amazing or really pathetic for the wanna be orange fish" I debated renaming him WannaBe but went with thinking it was amazing and left his name
Then the other day I was feeding the fish and I heard kissing noises. I looked at my son and all around the room and then back in the tank and realized that the smallest goldfish, when he eats instead of gulping the food sucks at the food on the top of the water and the result is kissing noises. So quickly I renamed him Kissy Fish. So our little family of fish now consist of Huey, Duey, Kissy, Mo and Sotolongo the Elusive Sucker Fish!!!
Friday, February 16, 2007
Get Your Head Out of the Toilet!
Get your head out of the toilet!
I used to work for Planet Hollywood. My job was to photograph and catalogue all of the props that were purchased by the company. I saw a lot of strange things there and said many things I never thought I'd hear myself say like:
"Do I have to photograph each taxidermy rat individually?" (as if the thought of handling rats wasn't disgusting enough I had to photograph 32 late rats...and yes, individually)
"I've got the Alien head would you grab John Candy's undies?", "Can I get a few guys to help me hold up my 12 foot bra?", "I lost my shoe in a 7' crate full of packing popcorn.", "Careful that one oozes".
But as a mom of a 3 yr. old, I found a whole new set of things that I never thought I'd say. There's your basic stuff like "because I said so" and "knock it off" but then there are things like:
"Don't put your shirt in the dishwasher!", "Don't drink the bath water!", "Stop putting poop on the floor!", "Get your feet out of my face! I don't want your butt in my face either." And my favorite, "Get your head out of the toilet"
Ahh....the life of a mother.
Thanks for reading,
Cherish Shalom
I used to work for Planet Hollywood. My job was to photograph and catalogue all of the props that were purchased by the company. I saw a lot of strange things there and said many things I never thought I'd hear myself say like:
"Do I have to photograph each taxidermy rat individually?" (as if the thought of handling rats wasn't disgusting enough I had to photograph 32 late rats...and yes, individually)
"I've got the Alien head would you grab John Candy's undies?", "Can I get a few guys to help me hold up my 12 foot bra?", "I lost my shoe in a 7' crate full of packing popcorn.", "Careful that one oozes".
But as a mom of a 3 yr. old, I found a whole new set of things that I never thought I'd say. There's your basic stuff like "because I said so" and "knock it off" but then there are things like:
"Don't put your shirt in the dishwasher!", "Don't drink the bath water!", "Stop putting poop on the floor!", "Get your feet out of my face! I don't want your butt in my face either." And my favorite, "Get your head out of the toilet"
Ahh....the life of a mother.
Thanks for reading,
Cherish Shalom
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